It seems that the older I get, the more early memories of my life simply disappear. I’ll get a glimpse of an image, but for the most part, there are whole chunks of my childhood that I cannot remember. What I do recall doesn’t follow any kind of pattern. There’s no telling what will flashback, or when.
There are even events in my children’s lives, those moments I told myself I would never forget… gone.
Yet, moments that seem of no consequence are forever remembered.
When I was about six or seven, my family lived in a huge apartment complex. Our building was near the entrance, and the road in ended in a cul-de-sac. All of the neighborhood kids would congregate there, playing ball, riding our bikes, being complete nuisances.
One summer a new family moved into the complex. They were Japanese and the parents spoke very little English. They had two young daughters, one a little older than me, the other a little younger. I don’t remember their names, but I do remember the older girl taught me how to fold origami cranes.
For whatever reason, I can recall that lesson and 45 years later, with a bit of trial and error, I can still fold a paper crane.
It intrigues me that this simple memory has remained with me… how to turn a piece of paper into a bird. Why was this significant enough that it is perpetually embedded in my brain?
*From the Vault of IMSO, edited and updated. Originally published Feb. 5, 2010
11 thoughts on “Origami cranes”
I love origami ducks and cranes. And I’d be willing to wager that you remember the lesson because it is also your memory of the friendship. The other kids, you did typical things with. Her, you did something unique.